Marry Me
by Distempered
Summary: A DracoGinny tragiromance. Draco reflects on his relationship with Ginny beginning when she tells him that she is having his child.


Disclaimer and Note: Canon characters do not belong to me. Thank you for reading and please leave a review. This is quite a bit different from my usual fare, so let me know if it sucks or works or whatev. Thanks again.

Warnings: Story contains sexuality and teen pregnancy.

Marry Me

"Marry me."

I hadn't meant for it to sound like an order. I hadn't really meant to say it at all. It just seemed like the words to say when confronted with the situation. I admit, it was mostly my fault – in my arrogance and eagerness to immerse myself in her skin, to drown in the ecstasy of her body, I didn't allow her to speak first. I just revelled in the beauty of her curves, the fire of her hair, and the sparkle in her eyes. She tasted like exquisite sin – like fine wine and rich chocolate, like stolen wealth, like forbidden love.

We lay there together, entangled and bathing in each other's sweat, until tendrils of morning sunlight began to seep through the velvet curtains of my bed. Our rapid breathing slowed to a normal pace and I pressed my sodden cheek to the hollow of her belly. Her hands jumped from her sides to my hair, entwining deeply in the matted blonde waves. I felt her quivering and looked up to find light tears escaping her eyes. She didn't want me to see them and turned her head, but I trapped her beneath me and turned her face to mine again.

"Why are you crying?"

She didn't answer. She just shook her head and brought her hands up to push me away. Again, though, my arrogance and submissiveness to her touch caused me to react as I did. I gripped her chin, not too hard, and looked directly into her eyes.

"Tell me why you cry."

Had there been witnesses to the exchange, they would have found it as disgusting as I do now. She was the only person in the world who could reduce me from the definitive Slytherin prince, who could rip someone to shreds with a few choice words, to a mewling simpleton. She struck me dumb – the way she said it so simply, without flowery words or breaking down into sobs of grief. There were just the light, quiet tears, and the stripped-down words.

"I'm having your child."

I couldn't question her. I couldn't fathom anything at that moment except that there was another life inside her. I made stupid little noises, mouth hanging open like a codfish. My hand had a mind of its own and slid down to draw absent-minded circles on her belly – to soothe the baby. But my eyes remained locked on hers, gray meeting blue in a standoff, daring one another to speak first. I did.

I really and truly didn't mean to say it. It was the first coherent thought that came to my head, and so I said it, but I didn't mean it. I regretted it almost instantly and was secretly glad when she said no. I bit down on my lower lip as disappointment flitted across her sweet face. I was afraid that she would just get up and leave me without another word besides 'no', but she exhaled and moved over to let me lay down beside her. I did so gratefully, crawling beneath my heavy coverlet and drawing the sheets over our naked bodies.

We had never slept together before, sharing a bed only to satisfy our sexual proclivities, and I found it to be quite less than pleasant. This was my bed, my sanctuary, and I was not predisposed to sharing it for anything other than sex. But, if only for the fact that I had already cocked things up with my inability to speak rationally, I allowed her to stay there.

She was a snuggler. I think that was what irritated me most about sharing my bed – that she had invaded my space with her intoxicating limbs. Her lean legs found mine and entangled themselves there. Her right arm crawled over my stomach to clutch at my side, holding me close to her. And her head, she placed it on my chest, over my heart, and fell asleep to its rhythmic beating. Her lips were parted slightly and in the tiniest spot, her breath gave me chills.

It was uncomfortable; _I _was uncomfortable. She was too close to me. To have her lying next to me, practically on me, and not being able to lose myself inside her was sheer madness.

Each little shift she made in her sleep made my breath hitch; I was terrified that she would awaken and I would have to be faced with the reality of it all. Now I could content myself with the illusion that we were just laying there together after a shag, preparing to part ways again. But if she woke? If she woke, I think I would have bolted. I would have.

We were too young, much too young to be dealing with a situation like this. She had just turned seventeen a few months before. She was a child. We were children. Children could not have children.

I began to turn it over in my mind. Would it be so bad if we were to marry? She was a pureblooded witch, so at the least the child would not be corrupted with tainted blood. I knew that love was not essential to a successful marriage, my own parents being the comparison. She and I did not love each other, and we did not have to, to make a marriage work. I began to see it as the only honorable option. We would have to marry.

When before I was terrified of waking her, I was now eager, anxious even, to wake her up. She needed to hear of my plans. We would marry and raise our son together. Of course it was a boy, my son. He would grow up, the Malfoy heir, spitting image of his father. He would be pure and carefree. He would be perfect. He would be a Slytherin, just like his dad. He would be the best Quidditch player the school had ever seen. He'd be brilliant at his studies. He'd grow up to be as powerful as his daddy, and then someday he, too, would marry a beautiful pureblood witch and have a son and continue the line.

She stirred in her sleep and I tensed. What was I doing, romanticizing this baby? This thing inside her stomach was just that, a thing, a mass of sinew and blood – created out of hunger. I didn't want it. I couldn't have a child now. I was still in school, an eighteen-year-old wizard on the precipice of greatness, and I couldn't have a child. Damn her for not being more careful! What could she possibly have been thinking?

I shoved her. I pushed her heavenly arm off my stomach, kicked out at her beautiful legs and jerked her sweet head from its place on my chest. She awoke with a surge of air, sucking in deeply. She instinctively clutched at the coverlet to hide her nudity. It was fully morning now, perhaps even early afternoon, and I felt self-conscious as the light descended from her jostling the curtains. She didn't get to see me naked right now. It didn't matter how many times before; right now, I felt vulnerable.

"Why did you let me sleep?" she asked. It was such an idiotic question. How could she ask that? Of all things? I watched the curves and planes of her enticing body shift and slide, easing her initial tension. She looked at me in earnest, and in that instant, I wanted nothing more than to make her my wife.

I said it again, ignoring her stupid question. This time it was less a demand than an affectionate question that I didn't think myself capable of asking in other circumstances. It was almost a lover's plea. It was wretched; I must have sounded utterly wretched. I bit the inside of my lip, my mind battling with itself over what it wanted to hear. Just before she answered, it was overwhelmingly in favor of no. She shook her head and whispered no. I relaxed visibly, and that seemed to incense her. She shoved back the covers and made to get out of the bed. I grabbed her by the wrist, refusing to let her leave. Her warmth was already dissipating, and I wanted more. She tried to wrench herself from my grip, but I held fast and turned her to sit facing me.

We sat cross-legged, knees touching and blankets pulled around our waists for modesty. I found myself staring at her breasts and imagining my son suckling from her, gaining strength. I know that my mother had a wet nurse for me, but my son would suckle from his mother. I must have made her uncomfortable because she crossed her arms over her chest then and looked away. That made me so angry. I never made her uncomfortable before, why should she be now? I never intimidated her before, why now?

That was what had drawn me to her in the first place.

I first noticed her walk. She carried herself with all the elegance and grace of a ballerina. She walked straight-backed and proud, not galumphing like the oafs that made up the rest of her family. It was almost like she considered herself above them, and I was utterly attracted to that. She would walk past me, and I'd have to steel every nerve I had to keep from collapsing at her feet. Being the man I was, I'd mask it with insults and hexes, but all I wanted was to press her up against a wall and show her just how good it could be.

Next was her body, her body with its secrets and treasures all hidden away beneath layers of robes. When I managed to glimpse her once, not covered by school robes, I had to try even harder to keep myself in check. It was the last Hogsmeade weekend before the privilege was revoked, and it was a gorgeous spring day. She was wearing a pair of jeans, a light grey tee shirt, and a black jumper. The jumper clung to her figure, accentuating perfect breasts, and the jeans were taut against the fullness of her arse. I could barely contain myself; I started to walk over to her, started to run even, but Potter and his cronies surrounded her first. It drove me mad to watch Potter sling his lanky arm around her waist.

I was finally able to speak to her one day, by no twist of fate. I caused her to get a detention with me. I sat in that room with her just burning to touch her, to know what she felt like, to see if she felt as good as she looked. Her scent was driving me up a wall. Her looks of disdain at my presence only infused me with a deep arousal – I had to violate her, fill her pores with my scent. I had to make her mine.

McGonagall sent us off to find that Squib of a caretaker to complete our detentions. She ushered us out the door and shut it, leaving us to our own designs. My girl eyed me up and down, seeming to take in my whole person in one sweeping glance. Then she smiled, the most innocent and yet feral smile. She knew what she was doing to me. She began to walk, exaggerating the sway of her hips. It would have been imperceptible to anyone else, but to me, who had studied her walk, it was as if a tornado had awakened inside me. I could no longer hide it. I wanted to split her open.

She toyed with me further. She shrugged out of her school robe and left it to crumple in heap at my feet. I picked it up and inhaled her scent and warmth. I felt dizzy from it. I didn't understand how she could be doing this to me. I had never wanted something so badly before – maybe it was that I shouldn't have her, I couldn't have her. But I wanted her so badly I could already taste her. She had invaded my skin; I was drunk on her presence.

She turned around and extended a breath-taking arm. "Give me my robe, please." I took that as an invitation. Even now, I cannot recall how I got her back to my room without ravaging her in the halls. But we reached my bedroom, I locked and warded the door, and then I took her virginity up against a mahogany bookshelf. She was the most gorgeous creature ever to walk the Earth. Her fiery hair flew wildly, her skin was flushed from exertion, and she wrapped her legs tightly around me. She felt like Christmas morning, like a large down quilt…like home.

When we finished, I cast _scourgify_ to cleanse her, but other than that, I barely looked at her. I didn't care if she was sore and aching. I didn't care that a bruise was forming on her back from where she had dug into my hardcover copy of Romeo and Juliet. I didn't care that she was bleeding and crying softly. I had gotten what I wanted and though it was evanescent, it had happened. And yet, a thought had crossed my mind. What if it didn't have to be fleeting? What if I could have her again and again?

She had looked up at me from where I had set her, unceremoniously, on the floor. There was hunger in her crystalline eyes. She wanted more, and I knew it. That look was all it took to set us on the path to where we had now ended up. Now she was carrying my baby. Now this perfect creature held a new life inside her – a piece of us both.

Our knees were touching as we sat on my bed, the bed we had shared for the first time. I reached across the expanse that had settled between us and drew her arms away from her chest. A surge of feeling carried itself through my veins and I reached out to stroke her arms gently. It felt awkward at first I'm sure, as I had never done anything like that to her before. We made love frantically, with reckless abandon. There was never anything remotely gentle about the way I touched her and she in turn touched me. But as I let featherweight touches course up and down her arms, gooseflesh covered her and she shivered. I found myself reaching out and drawing her into my lap, facing me. I covered her with blankets and cradled her like a baby. Then, without thinking, I lightly kissed her swollen lips.

We had never kissed before.

"Why did you do that?"

"I don't know."

I didn't know. I had never felt any particular desire to kiss her before. What was it about that moment that made me want to? Before, all I had ever wanted was to invade her, ravage her, consume her in every way possible. But now, I wanted to kiss her. I kissed her again, harder this time. I ran my tongue across the inside of her lower lip and then gently pressed the tip of my tongue to hers. She kissed back.

She kissed back.

She wrapped her arms around me and drew me in to her body, intimately. It was an intimacy we had never shared and that made it all the more intoxicating for me. And that made me want to stay this way, tangled in blankets and limbs, kissing her over and over and over again, for the rest of my life.

I whispered it again, and this time I kissed her immediately following, not allowing her to say no. I didn't want her to say no. I wanted nothing more than for her to say yes, yes, I'll marry you, I'll marry you.

She pulled away then. I tried to kiss her again, but she pulled away. She extricated herself from the blankets and lay back down, prone, on the bed. I lay down next to her and twined my fingers into hers, stroking her hand with my thumb. I didn't know where the affection was coming from, but my heart told me to continue…continue and she would say yes.

"I won't marry you."

It felt like I had been scalded. My grip on her fingers tightened and she let out a squeak of pain. That only made me want to crush her fingers somehow, but I refrained. I rolled onto my side and looked directly at her profile. A tear had squeezed free and was running unbidden down her cheek. I wanted to kiss it away.

"Why not?" I couldn't believe my own voice even as I spoke the words. It was a pathetic whimper – something that could have come out of a frightened first-year. I cleared my throat awkwardly and waited for her response.

"Because we are not in love."

I sat up quickly, knocking the blankets aside and rattling the curtains. I pushed them open and was surprised to find that it had grown dark again.

"Love? We are not in love? Love is for fools! Love is an imaginary dream created to cloud the mind of weak children. We are not children…we are having a baby. You are carrying my child, and we should get married so that we can raise the child into some semblance of a normal life."

She looked seriously at me and just drew the covers up to her chin. I grabbed a pair of pants and shoved myself into them, and then I began pacing the length of my bedroom up and down, over and over again.

"We do not need love to be married. We enjoy each other's company and that is enough. We can raise our child together, and he can grow up happy and in a family that lo…" I trailed off.

She pursed her lips at me, a little gesture that irritated me to no end. What right did she have to act superior? She was in just the same predicament as I was – worse even. She had to carry the damned thing for nine months. I could deny any involvement whatsoever and continue living my life as I had.

But, damn it, if I didn't love her.

"Marry me, please? I'm begging you to marry me."

"No."

"Why not? You can learn to – we can learn to love each other."

"Yes; except that deep down, no matter how much we try to bury it away, deep down in the most base and primal part of us, we _hate_ each other. It is pure, unadulterated hatred, born of years of familial aggression and pureblooded nonsense. You will never fully accept me because I am a blood traitor, and I will never fully accept you because you are a racist. And that is why we can never love each other, Draco Malfoy. _That_ is why. And that is why I cannot marry you."

She was so wrong, so very wrong. I loved her now. I loved her.

I watched her tiny body fumble in the darkness for her clothes, watched her throw on her hand-me-down robes, watched her pause briefly at the door, posture erect and determined…watched Ginny Weasley walk out of my life, forever.


End file.
